


Scram

by zathara001



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24294601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zathara001/pseuds/zathara001
Summary: On the night of the third task, Harry can only be grateful that his godfather had a paranoid streak.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 610
Collections: Harry Potter Fanfic Must Reads, NCIS Fanfic Must Reads





	Scram

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This story takes place between the backdoor pilot of NCIS (JAG season 8, episodes 20 and 21) and the premiere episode, when the MCRT was just Gibbs and DiNozzo.
> 
> As always, all rights in this story are given to the copyright holders of Harry Potter and NCIS.

24 June 2003

Inveterate prankster.

A bit barmy.

Delightfully mad.

Harry Potter knew that all of these epithets - and some even worse - had been applied to his godfather, Sirius Black, at some point or another during the man's life.

Lurking beneath them, never spoken and sometimes only barely acknowledged, was that Sirius Black was also a cunning, intelligent wizard.

It was that last quality that made Harry Potter completely, totally, and in all other ways grateful that Sirius Black was his godfather, and he'd never felt that gratitude more than he did at this moment, when he was tied to a tombstone, blood running down his arm from where Peter Pettigrew had taken blood for a ritual Harry didn't recognize, but that resulted in the resurrection of the self-styled Lord Voldemort - who was currently waxing nostalgic about the cemetery and the village nearby, after having poked his wand into Pettigrew's dark mark.

Harry only partly paid attention to the evil git's ramblings, as thinking about his godfather was far more pleasant, and he could always review the memories later in a pensieve. If he could convince the headmaster to let him use it, of course.

The biggest reason Harry was grateful for Sirius was the Christmas present he'd sent. Not the penknife, though that was quite handy, but rather the tiny parcel that came with it, wrapped in Slytherin green with a simple tag reading, _Mister Padfoot solemnly presents Mister Pronglet a gift._

The package wouldn't open, no matter what Harry tried. It had taken longer than he would ever admit for him to catch the not-so-subtle clue and tap the package while whispering, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The package then opened to reveal a simple gold-toned wristband, a note, and a pair of books on blood magic - which, according to the note, not many people would be able to read as they were written in Parseltongue - that Harry had read in dribs and drabs in between preparing for the Yule Ball and the remaining tasks of the Triwizard Tournament. He hadn't finished them, yet, but they had at least given him a little understanding of what was going on the moment Pettigrew had sliced his arm.

"…But look, Harry!" The use of his name pulled Harry back into the present moment as Voldemort continued, "My _true_ family returns!"

Harry watched with interest as cloaked and masked Death Eaters popped into the clearing, more and more of them until Harry lost count - and then Voldemort started talking again.

_Dark Git loves the sound of his own voice. Clearly never read the Evil Overlord List. Have to thank Hermione for showing that to me._

Harry looked up when Voldemort quite literally unmasked some of his followers, even calling some of them by name. Those names Harry recognized as being Hogwarts yearmates with him were no surprise at all. Those names Harry didn't recognize - well, someone would know who they were.

Voldemort turned to him and raised his wand. _Dammit - waited too long._

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Voldemort was already casting.

_"Crucio!"_

It was pain beyond anything Harry had ever experienced; his very bones were on fire; his head was surely splitting along his scar; his eyes were rolling madly in his head; he wanted it to end … to black out … to die …

And then it was gone, and the Death Eaters laughed madly as he hung limply from his bindings.

"You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than me," said Voldemort. "But I want there to be no mistake in anybody's mind. Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And I am now going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger. Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand."

_Really?_ Harry thought as he scrambled to find his footing, to support his weight before the ropes holding him were untied. _No way._

_Yes way_ , it turned out, as Pettigrew untied the ropes, left the circle of Death Eaters, crossed to where Cedric's body lay, and returned with Harry's wand, which he thrust roughly into Harry's hand before taking a place in the circle of watching Death Eaters.

"You have been -" Voldemort began, but Harry never heard the rest of the sentence.

"Scram," he whispered and barely had time to wave at Voldemort as the portkey grabbed him and yanked him out of the cemetery.

=HP=

Happy Christmas, Pronglet!

It's a Black family tradition - one of the few I can actually stomach - to offer three gifts at Yule in honor of the Triple Goddess or the three gifts of the Magi, whichever you prefer.

The first gift is a penknife, with attachments that will unlock all locks and undo any knot - a true Marauder's gift if ever there was one! Use it humorously.

The second is a set of two books that are supposed to be on blood magic. I say _supposed to be_ because they're in Parseltongue and only a Parselmouth like yourself can read them. If they're not about blood magic, I hope they're Parselporn! (Or, on second thought, maybe not. Snakes lay eggs, not sexy at all.) Read them carefully.

The final gift is an arm ring that your father gave me for my twenty-first birthday. It's a poor substitute for having James with us, but I thought you'd like it. It's also a portkey, charmed to bring you to safe place. I failed to put your safety first once, and we both paid dearly for that mistake. It's a mistake I won't make again.

The arm ring will size to fit your bicep when you put it on, and I strongly recommend you Disillusion it if there's a chance anyone will see it. The activation word is _Scram._ I wanted to make it _Beam me up, Scotty,_ because your mother loved that show, but it was pointed out to me that if you're in a life-threatening situation, the shorter the activation, the better.

I'm not telling you where the portkey will take you, just in case anyone else ever manages to read this note, but trust that it's a safe place, and if I'm not there when you arrive, I or someone you can trust will be there soon. Marauder's honor.

Again, happy Christmas, Pronglet!

Padfoot

=HP=

_Chlorine_ , Harry thought as he fell out of the portkey. The scent was relatively faint but distinctive, and it made sense for the destination to be someplace where he could receive medical treatment - the portkey was for a life-threatening situation, after all.

He scrambled to his feet, thankful his wand hadn't broken when he landed, and stared around him at a white room dotted with stainless steel tables. A series of cabinet doors maybe a meter square dotted the opposite wall.

"My word." The voice was male and not quite as heavily Scottish as Professor McGonagall's, and it came from behind him.

Harry whirled, wand ready, and found himself face-to-face with an older gentleman with brown hair just starting to gray, wearing wire-framed glasses and a red-and-white print bow tie.

"No need for that, young man," the man said, eyeing Harry critically. "You don't look badly injured, but it's best to be certain, isn't it? Up on a table with you."

"Who are you?" Harry asked. "Where am I?"

"Didn't Sirius tell you?" the man asked, and then shook his head before Harry could answer. "Of course not. Operational security and all that." Then he met Harry's gaze, apparently unconcerned by the wand still pointed at him. "I am Donald Mallard, medical examiner with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, Hogwarts class of not your concern, Ravenclaw. You may call me Ducky."

"Naval what?" Harry asked. Then, "Wait - Sirius? You know Sirius?"

"Of course I do, dear boy," the man who wanted to be called Ducky replied. "Do you think you'd end up in my autopsy theater alive if I didn't? Up on a table, now - You can ask your questions while I examine you."

"Autopsy theater?" Harry shook his head. "This is where Sirius thought to send me?"

"And where else?" Ducky countered. "Medical examiners are doctors, you know. At the very least, I can get you stabilized for transport to hospital. Bed. Now."

If Madam Pomfrey had spoken those words in that tone, Harry would leap to obey. He didn't know this Ducky Mallard, but he had a sense that he was cut from similar cloth.

Still, Harry surveyed the room once more before climbing onto one of the steel tables…tables, he realized now, where dead bodies lay to be cut open for autopsy. He thought that realization should disturb him more than it did.

"Much better," Ducky said and drew a wand to begin casting. "Now, salient points. You are in Washington, D.C., at a facility called the Navy Yard. Sirius Black is part of the Magical/Major Case Response Team and is currently conducting a crime scene investigation with the rest of the team. Good Lord - you have recent exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. What happened?"

"That-" Harry heaved a sigh. "I don't even know where to start. Can I wait until Sirius is back?"

"Certainly, dear boy," Ducky said. "The exposure doesn't seem to have lasted very long, thankfully. Unfortunately, though there are potions that can ease your symptoms, the only true cure is time. The cut on your arm, however, can be dealt with easily, as can your leg."

And he did, waving his wand in a pattern Harry knew too well. That was followed by a handful of potions that tasted surprisingly good, at least when compared to the potions he was used to, and then Ducky stood back, satisfied.

"Now, Mr. Potter," he said and smiled at what Harry was sure had to be his expression of open-mouthed shock. "Sirius told me who to expect," he added by way of explanation. "I've no idea when he will return, so in the meantime, you are welcome to rest here. I can make a spot of tea, if you'd like."

Exhaustion - more like the mother of all adrenaline crashes - slammed into Harry harder than he'd landed from the portkey, and suddenly all he wanted to do was sleep. The table beneath him changed from cold steel to soft fabric, and Harry gave in to the urge to stretch out on it.

Ducky settled a blanket around him, and darkness claimed him.

=HP=

"He's all right?"

The words wormed their way through Harry's awareness, and he realized that Sirius had spoken them.

"He will be, given time." That voice belonged to Ducky and drew Harry closer to full wakefulness. "I suspect it will be a week, possibly two, before the effects of the Cruciatus fully wear off, but otherwise he's well enough."

"That sounds like there's more to it than that," Sirius said.

"Nothing that cannot wait, I assure you," Ducky replied.

"Why's he here now, Duck?" That voice was also male, with a gruff American accent, and it brought Harry fully alert. He lay still, though, waiting to see what happened next.

"Because he used the portkey Sirius gave him," Ducky replied, and Harry couldn't help a snort of laughter at that. "Ah - Mr. Potter. How are you feeling?"

Harry opened his eyes to see Ducky, Sirius, and two other men, one with steely gray hair, the other with brown hair, standing beside his bed.

"Better, thanks," Harry answered honestly, if roughly, before focusing on Sirius. "Padfoot."

"Pronglet." Sirius stepped forward and rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. "What happened, pup?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak, realized that explaining it would take a while, and then looked up at his godfather hopefully. "Pensieve?"

"Interview Room One." So the gruff voice belonged to the gray-haired man.

"Is he free to go?" Sirius asked Ducky.

Ducky cast another diagnostic and stowed his wand. "Yes, though I do want to talk to the both of you after Mr. Potter's settled in."

"Just Harry," Harry said, and Ducky smiled at him.

"After young Harry has settled in," he said.

"Will do," Sirius said. Then, "This way, pup."

Harry hopped off the bed - which returned to its original table form the moment he left it - and followed Sirius, the gray-haired man and the other, whose name he didn't know, into a lift, up a couple of floors, and then into a room very much like police interrogation rooms he'd sometimes glimpsed on the telly when his relatives watched it.

The room contained only a table and three chairs. The left-hand wall half made of glass, presumably one-way glass that someone in the other room could watch.

Sirius led the way into the room and pulled out a chair. "Have a seat, pup."

Harry sat and watched Sirius and the gray-haired man take up positions flanking the door. A moment later, the brown-haired man came in carrying a basin a little larger than the one he'd seen in Professor Dumbledore's office.

The brown-haired man set the Pensieve on the table and faced Harry.

"Hi, Harry," he said. "My name's Tony DiNozzo. Have you used a Pensieve before?"

"I've seen a memory in one, if that's what you mean," Harry replied.

"Have you put one of your own in?" Tony asked.

"No, sir."

"It's simple and painless," Tony said. "I'm certified-"

"Certifiable," Sirius muttered just loud enough to be heard, and Tony shot him a dirty look but continued talking to Harry as though the interruption hadn't happened.

"-and I'll walk you through the retrieval process, and then we'll all watch the memory, okay?"

It sounded good except, "What do you mean, certified?"

Tony stared at him for a moment, blinked, blinked again, and then his expression cleared and he gave an exaggerated slap to his forehead. "Of course you don't know. They do things differently across the Pond. I forgot."

"Life-threatening situation, DiNozzo," the gray-haired man spoke.

"Not at the moment," Tony shot back, then focused on Harry again. "In Britain, Pensieve memories aren't allowed as evidence in an investigation as a rule. Fortunately, you're now in the United States of America, where memories are allowed as evidence, provided they're retrieved by a Certified Memory Retrieval Specialist, which is what I meant when I said I'm certified."

That explanation wasn't nearly as convoluted as some of Hermione's, and Harry followed it without difficulty.

"What do I have to do?" he asked.

"Meditate," Tony replied. "Or at least try to."

"Meditate? I - don't know what you mean." Harry looked down, ashamed to be found wanting.

The gray-haired man snorted. "Damn Brits."

"It's all right, Harry," Tony said. "It's another difference - American magical schools teach meditation from the beginning. I forgot that European magical schools don't get into it until later. But here's where being certified helps again. I can talk you through a very basic relaxation sequence."

"Okay."

"Lights, please, Gibbs," Tony said as he drew his wand. The room went dark just as Tony said, _"Candelae."_

The tip of Tony's wand lit, but not bright like a Wand-Lighting Charm. Instead, it flickered like a candle flame.

"Just watch the light flickering," Tony said, his voice quieter than it had been. "And breathe with me. In. Out. In and hold. Out and hold. In. Out."

Harry followed Tony's instructions and felt himself relaxing, though he hadn't realized he was tense.

"All right," Tony said. "Now let your mind wander back over the events that made you use your portkey. Don't force it, just allow those events to come to the front of your mind. Tell me when they are."

"Now," Harry said, and barely heard his own voice.

Tony apparently did, because the tip of his wand moved toward Harry, and after a moment, he felt it touch his left temple. _"Nox. Memorium Duplici Exemplari."_

It was only a few breaths before Harry saw the silvery strands of his memory clinging to Tony's wand. The lights came back on while Tony was placing the memory into the Pensieve.

"Anything you want to tell us, pup?" Sirius asked. "Before Tony plays it back - any context?"

Harry inhaled sharply, suddenly tense again. "It starts at the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Cedric and I got to the cup at the same time, and I said he should take it because he was the _real_ Hogwarts champion. He said I should, because I'd saved him from the acromantula. I finally convinced him that both of us should take it, together. The cup was a portkey."

After a moment, Tony said, "You don't have to come into the memory with us if you don't want to."

"I don't," Harry replied immediately, definitively.

Sirius and the gray-haired man - Gibbs, Harry thought - stepped forward. Sirius clasped Harry's shoulder in a brief grip, then the three adults sank into the memory.

=HP=

Harry was desperate for a drink of water and a loo - not necessarily in that order - by the time the three men emerged from the Pensieve looking grim. Tony immediately withdrew Harry's memory from the Pensieve and captured it in a crystalline vial he pulled from a pocket.

"I'll talk to Morrow," Gibbs said, already striding for the door.

"I'll call Uncle Clive," Tony said.

Before he could follow Gibbs, Harry called, "Wait! What about my memory?"

Tony paused in the door. "Right, you wouldn't know. I copied your memory. Standard procedure. It's still in your head, kiddo. Think about it if you don't believe me."

Then he was gone and Harry was alone with the godfather he hadn't seen in nearly a year.

"Harry," Sirius began, but Harry held up a hand.

"I know, we need to talk and all that," Harry said. "But can I go to the loo and get a drink of water first?"

Sirius gaped at him, then looked at his watch. "Damn, pup - I'm sorry. Lost track of time in the Pensieve, and your body thinks you're five hours ahead of us. Let's get you home, and we can talk about it in the morning."

Sirius sent a messenger patronus off and rose to his feet.

"Loo first," Harry reminded him.

=HP=

Harry woke the next morning only slightly disoriented thanks to the Dreamless Sleep potion Sirius had given him. He also woke feeling very refreshed thanks to the Jet Lag potion. He held on to those feelings because he was sure that he'd have nightmares about Cedric's death and Voldemort's resurrection sooner or later. With his luck, _much_ sooner.

He looked around the room he'd been given in Sirius' flat. It was spectacularly undecorated, except for the bedding in a rich blue and the curtains in a somewhat darker shade of the same blue. Three doors led out of it - en suite, closet, and out of the room completely, he guessed.

Harry rolled out of bed and found himself clad in red-striped pajama bottoms and a T-shirt emblazoned with a Golden Snitch. He took a guess as to which door led to the en suite and was pleased he'd guessed correctly.

Once he finished with his ablutions, he took another guess at which door would take him out of the room, guessed wrong, and finally chose the correct door.

It opened onto a short hallway, and Harry followed it to the main living area, where he found Sirius sitting at a simple round dining table, mug in one hand as he read a Muggle newspaper.

"Good morning," Harry offered quietly, and his godfather looked up with a smile.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Sirius replied. "There's breakfast under a stasis charm in the corner, drinks in the refrigerator - unless you want coffee or tea, then the machine's by the stove."

"You'll explain all of this-" Harry waved a hand around the room "-while I eat?"

"I will. Sorry I haven't before now, but I couldn't risk putting it on paper, even password protected," Sirius said.

"Why not?" Harry asked, finding a plate loaded with pancakes, bacon, and two eggs where Sirius had indicated. He ended the stasis charm, and the bacon-heavy aroma made his stomach grumble.

He took his plate to the table, slathered the pancakes in butter and syrup, and started to eat.

"It would confirm where I am," Sirius replied. "The Ministry knows I've been given asylum, but nothing more than that."

"Asylum?" Harry frowned, pausing with his fork dripping syrup onto his plate. "I thought that was only for refugees?"

"It's for any kind of persecution," Sirius replied. "Fortunately, the Americans find the use of Dementors to be cruel and unusual punishment, so my request was processed pretty quickly. That I was sent to prison without a trial - and could provide certified memories to prove it, plus that I didn't betray your parents or kill those Muggles -that was just icing on the cake."

Harry finished his pancakes and started on the eggs, hunger overriding his curiosity for a moment before he looked up at his godfather again. "Why'd you send the portkey?"

Sirius' expression turned grim. "Because I knew that nobody else has your safety primarily in mind."

Harry nearly dropped his fork. "What? Of course -"

"They don't," Sirius cut him off. "If they did, there's no way you'd have been in that damned tournament."

"Somebody confounded the Goblet," Harry began, but Sirius was shaking his head.

"Dumbledore's age line was the only protection it had - that's what you said in your letter, anyway. An _age line_ ," he repeated in a tone that oozed scorn, "that I can think of half a dozen ways to get past without any effort at all. I'd call the security on it a joke, but that's too high a compliment. There was, effectively, _no_ security on it."

"Nobody's perfect," Harry began, his eggs forgotten.

Sirius regarded him evenly. "Would you be saying that if, say, Ron Weasley's name had come out of the Goblet and he'd faced what you did? Or Hermione's name?"

Harry flinched.

"I didn't think so," Sirius said. "And don't even get me started on what happened after - how they effectively forced you to compete in a tournament that has killed so many of its competitors that it was banned."

"They made it safer," Harry protested.

"Nesting. Mother. Dragons."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but found no words. Sirius was right - there was no way nesting mother dragons equaled safer.

"Oh," Sirius added, "I forgot - your things are upstairs in the closet."

"They are?" Harry thought back to his exploration of his room. He'd only looked in the closet long enough to determine that it was a closet. "How?"

"Magic." Sirius shot him an evil grin. "But really, your aura, for lack of a better word, permeates your things over time. One of the techno-wizards at NCIS figured out how to link the portkey to your aura so it would bring things with you. Takes extra power and effort when the portkey is made, so it's not done very often. I just wanted to be sure that if you had to get out of someplace, that you _got out_ and never had to go back unless you wanted to."

A thought occurred to Harry and he swallowed hard. "Hedwig! What about Hedwig?"

"Owls have their own magical auras," Sirius said, "so they can't be linked to a portkey the way your things were. That said, you just called her. I'm sure she'll be here in a couple of days - it's quite the flight from Scotland to DC."

"What if she's not?" Harry asked.

"Then we'll contact Remus - yes, he knows where I am - and ask him to fetch her," Sirius assured him.

Harry let himself relax, at least a little, and finished his eggs. "How'd you get involved with the Navy service place?"

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," Sirius said. "Tony was the one they called to take my memories, and as such, he got a copy of my interview transcript. He saw that I'd been an Auror and asked if I wanted to join them. I said yes."

Harry doubted it was that simple - in his experience, things in the magical world were rarely that simple - but maybe America was different.

"Who were those people Tony and - Gibbs? - said they were going to talk to?"

"Morrow is NCIS Director Tom Morrow," Sirius answered. "And Tony's Uncle Clive is Clive Paddington. Think a much more pleasant Lucius Malfoy working for good instead of evil."

"Um. Wow."

Sirius laughed. "Yeah, wow about sums it up. I met him once - he came over at Yule. He ranks right near the top of the list of people I will never, ever prank or otherwise annoy. He may be light, but he can be vicious as hell when crossed."

"Came over?"

"From England."

"Oh." Harry munched on a piece of bacon before a spark of memory prompted him to ask, "Why were they telling the Director and Mr. Paddington?"

Sirius looked at him as though he were daft. "Because Voldemort's been resurrected, of course."

Harry gave Sirius the look right back. "Why do they care? It's not like Voldemort's coming to America."

"Voldemort's a terrorist, plain and simple," Sirius said. "America has a dim view of terrorists these days, and we'll be prepared if Voldemort expands beyond Britain. And Clive Paddington _is_ English, in case I didn't make that clear. More to the point, he's very influential within both the magical and mundane worlds, and will use that influence as much as he can."

"…You said _we'll_ be prepared?"

"I'm an American citizen now," Sirius said. "It wasn't a requirement for asylum, but the only thing tying me to Britain anymore is you. And much as I love you, Pronglet, I refuse to be associated with Britain after how they treated us both."

Harry started to protest, but it died stillborn on his lips. He couldn't deny that magical Britain had hurt both him and Sirius - and others, too. Besides Sirius, Hagrid had been thrown into prison without a trial, and the Ministry had been set to execute a hippogriff just because Lucius Malfoy wanted to.

Too often, it seemed, prejudice, corruption, and general apathy seemed to be the rule, instead of the rule of law that Harry had grown up believing in.

Oh, sure, the Dursleys were horrible people, and nothing had been done about them when he'd reported them. He'd seen other kids complain and be heard, but nothing had been done for _him_. Since he'd been in the magical world, he'd slowly realized that someone magical had been at work in his mundane life, too.

Which meant - Harry heaved a silent, heavy sigh as the weight of his conclusion settled on him - there was nothing in Britain for him, either.

"You sure?" Sirius asked, which told Harry he'd said that last aloud - or else that Sirius was much better at reading people than anyone had ever given him credit for. "What about your friends? Ron and Hermione?"

"Not Ron." The words were swift and definite, and Harry found himself both surprised by the words themselves and his refusal to backtrack.

"Why not?"

"We were friends - I _thought_ we were friends - for three years," Harry said. "Maybe three years isn't that long, but it should bloody well be long enough for him to know I never put my name in the Goblet. He called me a cheater and a liar and avoided me until after the first task. And then he didn't even have the decency to apologize. Not that I wanted to hear it, anyway."

"You know Dumbledore would say that forgiveness is the mark of a superior man," Sirius said solemnly - and the ruined the effect by grinning. "Or something like that."

"I'll forgive him, eventually," Harry said, then grimaced. "Probably. But that doesn't mean I'm going to forget it." He blew out a breath and finished the last of his bacon.

"So, not Ron," Sirius said after a minute. "Hermione?"

"She's my best friend," Harry said. His eyes stung, and he willed himself not to cry. "She stood by me, believed me - believed _in_ me - from the beginning. And she's in danger now that Voldemort's back." He looked up at Sirius. "Is there anything we can do for her?"

"Maybe." Sirius held up a hand. "And I mean that. I don't _know_ if there's anything we can do, but there might be. I'll ask, okay?"

"Okay," Harry said, because there was nothing else he could say, and fell silent, toying with his fork until Sirius cleared his throat and he looked back at his godfather.

"Last year, I asked if you wanted to come live with me," Sirius began softly. "I didn't have much to offer you, a life on the run at best, but you said yes. This year, I have more to offer - a flat, a job doing good work with good people, and I'm a free man, as long as I don't go back to Britain, which I won't do voluntarily. So - do you want to come live with me?"

Harry smiled so widely his cheeks hurt. "Yes, please!"

=HP=

6 July 2003

It had been nearly two weeks since Harry Potter went into the maze for the final task of the Triwizard Tournament with Cedric Diggory and not come back.

Cedric hadn't come back either, not really - his body appearing on the victor's stand didn't count as _coming back_ \- but at least Hermione Granger knew what had happened to Cedric. She'd seen his body with her own eyes, sent condolences to Cedric's family, and cried during the leaving feast that had become a memorial for him.

Harry, though - Harry had simply disappeared. With Cedric dead, there were no witnesses who could explain what had happened, and so the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ , of course, made up their own story.

Much like, Hermione had realized with horror as she'd seen the headlines the day after the third task, what had happened when Harry was a baby. The truth was that no one saw the confrontation between Voldemort and the Potters back then - except a fifteen-month-old toddler who somehow survived the attack.

Then, as now, stories were told as fact when there was no basis for them. The only difference was that fifteen-month-old Harry was hailed as a hero; fourteen-year-old Harry was vilified, excoriated, and all but declared Public Enemy Number One.

It had started innocently enough, with calls for Harry, assuming he was still alive, to come forward and tell his side of the story. Or, well, Hermione amended privately, it had started _apparently_ innocently enough. She wasn't entirely certain that, if Harry went in to tell his story, he'd come out afterward. The Ministry had a penchant for throwing people in prison without trials, after all.

"Hermione?"

The sharpness of her mother's tone suggested it wasn't the first time she'd said it, and Hermione looked up, guiltily, from the book she'd been staring at but not really reading for the last hour or so.

July sun streamed through the window of the little reading nook she'd created from a three-shelf cabinet and a comfortable chair and onto the book in her lap. Her mum leaned over the bookshelf.

"That must be a very interesting book," Mum said, "because I've called you three times to tell you brunch is ready."

"Oh. Sorry." Hermione marked her place in the book and set it on top of the stack of books beside the chair before standing and following her mother into the dining area off the kitchen.

The tradition of having Sunday brunch at home stretched back as far as Hermione could remember. Her parents weren't very religious - a description by Douglas Adams that she'd seen once described their belief: a vague, wishy-washy Anglicanism - but they liked the idea of a day of rest and family, even if they never attended church on the day or referred to it as the Sabbath.

So Mum and Dad alternated cooking, and all three of them sat at the table to eat. It was the time they spent together as a family, catching up on the bits of their lives that didn't overlap and talking about whatever they found interesting. Normally, Sunday brunch was Hermione's favorite time of the week - but normally, she wasn't worrying for her best friend.

It was Dad's turn today - he always cooked the first Sunday of the summer holiday, since Hermione had started primary school - and he handed out generous servings of quiche Lorraine and fresh berry salad plus smaller servings of cinnamon coffee cake. Hermione thanked him and took a bite of quiche.

"So what were you reading that you were so engrossed in, honey?" Mum asked.

For the first time in a very long time, Hermione floundered for an answer, finally settling on, "I wasn't really reading, Mum. Just thinking."

"About your friend Harry?" Dad asked.

"I can't help it," Hermione said, and hated that her eyes burned with unshed tears. "They killed Cedric, but not Harry. Nobody's looking for him. Who knows what they're doing to him?"

Mum and Dad exchanged a look that probably only parents would ever understand. Hermione thought they might be playing a silent game of _rock, paper, scissors_ to decide which one of them would handle the conversation.

A brisk knock at the door interrupted their debate, and Hermione jumped at the reprieve. "I'll get it."

It wasn't that she didn't want to talk about Harry with her parents, she mused as she headed for the door, but rather that she didn't want to talk with them _right now_. Right now, she was still, well, grieving. (Second stage: anger. The first stage, denial, had passed after the first week, when Harry hadn't sent her a message. Hedwig had left the owlery the day after Harry disappeared, and she'd hoped that the owl was on the way to Harry and that he'd send a message as soon as he could.)

Hermione opened the door to a pleasant-faced man perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties to judge by his steel gray hair. Well-off, judging by the cut of his suit, which was certainly bespoke. His grave expression made her straighten, ready to face whatever challenge he presented.

"Good morning," she said as politely as she knew how. "May I help you?"

Brown eyes of a lighter shade than her own met her gaze, and for once she didn't see any typical assumptions about a teenager in them.

"Miss Granger?" he asked, his tone cordial and his accent a cross between country and upper crust. "Miss Hermione Granger?"

"Yes, sir." The honorific seemed almost necessary somehow, though Hermione didn't recognize him as royalty or, really, anyone she should know deserved it.

"My name is Clive Paddington," he said. "I wondered if I might have a word with you and your parents."

That made Hermione blink, momentarily dumbfounded. Who was he that he needed to speak to her whole family? Then she realized he'd offered her a business card. She took it and glanced at it automatically, before the letters on it caught her full attention.

Clive Paddington, KG, GCB, DSO, OBE

Earl of Stapleton

The only other writing on the card indicated a telephone number and an email address. Hermione shook off her momentary surprise and offered the visitor a smile. "If you'll wait a moment, please?"

"Of course."

The man didn't seem annoyed when she closed the door and took the card into the dining area. "Dad, Mum - there's an Earl asking to speak to us."

"What?" The question came from both her parents, but as Dad was closer, she handed the card to him.

Dad glanced at the card only briefly before passing it to Mum and striding toward the door.

"Lord Stapleton," she heard Dad say. "Please come in. We were just sitting down to brunch. May we offer you some quiche? Or coffee cake, perhaps?"

Mum leaned closer and whispered, "This is why your father did all the talking when we were taking out the loan to buy our surgery."

Hermione managed not to laugh, but she was smiling when her father led Lord Stapleton into the room and offered him the remaining seat at the table.

"If there's coffee to go with that coffee cake," he said, "I'd be delighted."

"How do you take it?" Mum asked, as she happened to be closer to the kitchen.

"Black is fine, thank you," the earl replied. "My nephew lives in the States, and I've gotten quite used to black coffee when I visit him."

The next few minutes were filled with idle chat and the clinking of silverware and china, but finally all four of them were seated at the table, plates in front of them.

"I do apologize for not calling ahead," Lord Stapleton said, "but the matter is both urgent and confidential. Arranging a formal appointment might put certain innocent parties at risk."

Mum and Dad did that silent communication thing again, and Dad said, "Of course we'll be discreet."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Lord Stapleton said. He took a bite of the coffee cake and once he'd chewed and swallowed, he offered a smile at Mum. "Delicious, Dr. Granger."

"Actually," Mum said with a hint of embarrassment, "it was my husband's turn today."

Lord Stapleton actually looked a bit taken aback, but he recovered quickly and turned to Dad. "My apologies for the sexist assumptions. The coffee cake is excellent, Dr. Granger."

"Thank you," Dad said.

Hermione thought the earl meant it, because he finished nearly half of the portion in front of him before speaking again.

"The most important thing first," he said. "Harry Potter is alive and well."

The words were so unexpected that Hermione didn't register them at first. When she did, it was only the earl's presence - no, his _presence_ , the force of his personality - that kept her from jumping up and squealing with excitement. As it was, she simply sank back into her chair with a whispered, "Thank God."

"Are you - part of that world, then?" Mum asked hesitantly. "Hermione's world?"

"It's your world, too, Dr. Granger - or it should be," Lord Stapleton corrected himself. "It _would_ be, if people were better than they are. But they are not, and the world is divided now between magical and mundane."

That caught Hermione's attention. "You said _now_ , but the Statute of Secrecy went into effect in 1692. Hasn't the world been divided since then?"

"To a greater or lesser degree," Lord Stapleton said. "But despite that, magicals and non-magicals lived together more or less side-by-side until Grindelwald."

"I'm sorry," Dad said, "but who? Or maybe what?"

Lord Stapleton looked at Hermione. "Have you covered Grindelwald at Hogwarts yet?"

"No, sir," Hermione replied. "Professor Binns really only ever lectures about goblin rebellions. I've read other books than the assigned text, but I've tried to stay concurrent with the times he lectures about. We're at the Tudor period now."

"And this is why Paddingtons go abroad for their magical education," the earl replied. "Or hire tutors. Briefly, Gellert Grindelwald was a terrorist who, at the same time as the Second World War, declared open war on the world and set out to abolish the Statute of Secrecy, instead setting up a benevolent hierarchal order in which wise and powerful magicals would rule over non-magicals. Naturally, he didn't care about the use of force in achieving that goal."

"That's awful," Hermione said, even as her parents made similar comments. "What happened to him?"

"Your headmaster defeated him," Lord Stapleton replied. "I mention him only because it was in the aftermath of that conflict that the world became divided in the sense I meant before. Before the Wizarding War, non-magical parents and families were more welcome within the magical world. Conversely, magical students and their families came to visit their friends in the non-magical world. Tell me, Miss Granger - have any of your magical friends been to visit you?"

"It's very kind of you to assume that I have magical friends, sir," Hermione said. "But no. Harry's relatives really won't let him visit anywhere, so that's not his fault. And Ron … Ron would be quite out of place here, not quite a fish on a bicycle, but close. But, forgive me, sir - what does this have to do with Harry?"

"On the surface, very little." Lord Stapleton took another bite of cake and then a swallow of coffee before he met Hermione's gaze once more. "Harry was kidnapped from the Triwizard Tournament, along with Cedric Diggory. They touched the cup at the same time, you see - it was a portkey."

Hermione gasped, and her parents looked confused. "It's like a transporter," Hermione said. "Touch it, and it will take you to a preset destination. It was supposed to bring the champion, the winner, to the victory platform."

"I will not share the details of what happened that night without Harry's permission," the earl said. "But he wanted me to tell you two things."

"Which are?" Hermione asked and ignored her mother's scandalized expression.

"First, that he is alive and well and, more importantly, safe. Second, that Voldemort has been resurrected."

Hermione stared at him, her jaw going slack.

No. It couldn't be true. Voldemort was dead - something Harry or maybe Lily Potter did that Halloween night thirteen years ago killed him. That's what everybody said, right?

_But weren't you just being annoyed about how the Ministry and the_ Prophet _told stories without all the facts? Weren't you just reminding yourself that_ nobody _saw what happened that night except for a toddler?_ Nobody _saw what happened that night - except Harry._

"Have you seen Harry?" Hermione demanded. "Have you spoken to him?"

"I have not," Lord Stapleton replied and held up a hand as he did. That hand was the only reason Hermione didn't batter him with questions. "However, I trust my sources implicitly. I would not have come if there were the slightest doubt of Harry's current state."

"If I may," Dad said, "why _did_ you come? Surely there were ways of telling her that required less of your time."

"I came because Harry asked me to. Not me, specifically, I should say, but someone that you would listen to and believe."

"What does this Voldemort person have to do with Hermione?" Mum asked.

"On the surface, very little," the earl replied. "Or so you might think. How much do you know about him?"

The question was directed to Hermione and she took a breath before saying, "He's a power-hungry dark wizard. Much like Grindelwald, he wants to rule the magical world. Unlike Grindelwald, his agenda includes killing everyone not a pureblood." She took another breath. "And I'd be first on his list because I'm - a mudblood."

"What's that?" Dad asked. "It sounds insulting."

"It is," Hermione said. "Very insulting. It's what purebloods, and probably half-bloods, too, call Muggleborns. Magical people with non-magical parents."

"We prefer the term newblood," Lord Stapleton said, "because that's what you are - new blood to give new life to the magical community. Sadly, the prejudices that allowed Grindelwald to rise to power, the same prejudices that Voldemort feeds into, kept the derogatory term in place."

"So - this Voldemort wants to kill Hermione because we don't have magic?" Mum said. "That's insane!"

"Evil often is," the earl replied. "But it's not just because of an accident of birth that Voldemort will target your daughter."

Dad and Mum did that silent communication thing again, briefly, before turning to Hermione.

"Why is he interested in you?" Mum asked.

"Because I'm Harry's friend," Hermione answered immediately. "Voldemort hates Harry because Harry defeated him. Hurting me would hurt Harry."

"Exactly correct," Lord Stapleton said. "But forewarned is forearmed, as they say. Harry is hoping that you will heed the warning. I do, too - if only so I might one day have more of this excellent coffee cake."

He rose. "The discussion that comes next is not one that I need to be privy to. Once you have decided, however - do ring me up. I can assist you, whatever your decision."

"And if we decide we want to go where Harry is?" Hermione asked. "What then?"

The earl gave her a smile that was more _kindly grandfather_ than Professor Dumbledore on his best day, because behind that smile Hermione sensed a genuine concern for her, even if that concern was only for Harry's sake.

"Then I will ask him if he is agreeable to that, and if he is, I will assist you-" he glanced at Mum and Dad to include them in his offer "-in getting to him as expediently as possible."

"And if we want to stay in England?" Dad asked. "Because I have the impression that Harry's not."

The smile faded. "Then I will offer you emergency protection, and hope for the best - for your daughter, if nothing else." He inclined his head toward the business card resting on the table beside Dad's place setting. "That's my personal mobile number. I or one of my immediate family will answer it, any time. Thank you once again for the coffee cake. I can show myself out."

The quiet click of the door closing echoed in the too-silent house.

Then Mum said, "Well. Let's get brunch cleared away, and then we have a discussion to have."

Hermione could only hope she could persuade them to join Harry, wherever he was.


End file.
